


Though It Burns Your Lips (The Bitter Potion Remix)

by megyal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:17:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they work on a serial murder case, Harry and Draco begin to really see each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though It Burns Your Lips (The Bitter Potion Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Potions Are Quiet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/980415) by [JosephineStone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosephineStone/pseuds/JosephineStone). 



> **Disclaimer:** The following is inspired by Josephine Stone's work, "Potions Are Quiet", with several lines of dialogue and one entry directly quoted from her piece. This is also based on fictional characters and a universe created by JK Rowling and owned by her and others, none of whom include me. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
>  **Author's notes** : Mods, thanks for another wonderful fest! All my gratitude to Plum. She told me how to approach this remix and is entirely responsible for jumpstarting my lazy, whining ass, in addition to beta'ing. More rambling: I was very wary of choosing 's starred piece, because thematically and stylistically, it was not something I would ever think to approach. But then this is a _remix_ fest. That's kind of the point. Additionally, when I stalked her journal and saw her posts about that story, I felt it was extra-important to her and really wanted to give it a shot. I took about three days to write this, so in terms of time it was one of the easiest stories I ever wrote. In the same breath, it was the hardest I've ever tried. It felt as if if the story refused to let me go until I finished it and as I write this AN, I am exhausted and kind of weirdly emotional? So, I'm nervously eager to hear what thinks.
> 
>  **Warnings/Content:** * dark!fic; implied child abuse/rape/molestation; the opening scene is that of a murder being completed; dub-con in one particular scene; implications of Dissociative Identity Disorder.* For that last one, please note that I don't know anything about it. If it comes across as wrong/offensive, please say and I'll do my best to adjust it. As a matter of fact, if there's anything that I should have warned for or should have been more clear about, I'm sorry in advance. Point it out and I'll ask the mods to adjust the warnings. It's probably not as bad as I'm making it out to be, but I just want to be careful.

_It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals_  
 _your sick self_  
-[On Pain](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-pain/), by Khalil Gibran

Potions were very quiet; but they affected everyone differently, depending on weight, height, age and as studies increasingly revealed, gender. Females actually responded a bit more slowly to pain-blocking potions… up to five minutes behind the time recorded by males. Men reacted faster to Veritaserum, especially older individuals of white extraction.

Everyone died differently when poisoned. At least, she's only ever had subjects who were male. In that case, the hypothesis needed to be restated: based on the evidence given, all males respond differently to poison when applied skin-to-skin.

That sounded wonderfully professional. 

Thomas Avery died quickly. He died as if he'd been waiting eagerly for it, hands clasped together in supplication. Some men fought it: they grabbed for air and crawled towards the door, as if salvation lies just beyond the timber. The same door they'd ushered a girl through, a _young_ girl to whom they'd been quite willing to do ...well, what is it men like them do, anyway? They eat with their eyes and devour with the rest of their bodies. They consumed her and her kin. This had been her truth for nearly as long as she knew herself, so much so that she cloaked herself in this lie just to survive.

For that, she took their _everything_. She removed them from anyone else who had suffered under their touch. She subtracted the existence of their noxious gaze.

Her latest lay on the bed of this trash motel, his legs jerking as they hang off the edge. He was not as quiet as Avery; he whispered a name, but she couldn't make it out. She sat on the bed as well, a few inches from his twitching body. She glanced down at him out of the corner of his eye; some of her lipstick, cherry and glitters, was smeared on his wretched mouth. He stilled, and she wiped her palms over the pleats of her skirt. She liked this skirt.

She got up, withdrawing her wand from the small holster sewn into the inside of her shirt. She turned in a small circle beside the bed, methodically removing all traces of herself: fingerprints, hair, skin. Currently, her form was not the one she'd been born with, but even under the potions she'd ingested, she still was who she was at the genetic level. There was no potion that could mask or alter DNA without leaving some traceable characteristics on the nucleic acids. Besides, the spells to scrub a crime scene were effective enough. No traces left behind, that was the way to go. The smear of cherry-flavoured shimmer faded from his skin.

She exited quietly and moved down the narrow staircase. The wallpaper was ghastly: pink flowers and green leaves. She frowned at the flowers and dashed past the lobby with its glassed booth. The bloke who'd collected the money for the hour lifted his head from whatever skin magazine he'd been looking at, but she moved faster and was already out the door. The evening air wafted coolly against her skin, exposed by the wide mesh of her stockings; she folded her arms against her narrow chest, kept her head down and moved quickly along the sidewalk. Her fine hair flickered against her cheeks.

In five minutes, the attendant would knock on the door and demand for the man to vacate or pay for more time. In fifteen minutes, the Muggle police force would be crawling all over the crime-scene. The Aurors were already on alert for deaths of this nature, and they'd be here in twenty minutes, accompanied by the Obliviators. They'd ask their questions, and the attendant would describe her. That woman in that little shop over there would confirm that she'd seen a young blonde girl go rushing by. Another victim profile would be added to the thick case-file, and maybe another sketch of the girl, who was now Apparating from the shadows of an alley. 

They should be looking for a man.

**#20.**

It's like living with something heavy on my chest. I keep thinking _the ends justify the means_ , but it gets all mixed up in my head. What were the ends? What were the means? What was I doing? _Why_ did I do it? All the training I've been through, all those classes on ethics and professional responsibility...they were for nought, apparently.

I sleep at night, and I sleep easy. Very easily. It's when I wake up, that's when I start to think and those questions just pop up and race around, chasing their tails. I go over everything in my head, every single step. That's what I wanted to do in the first place, go step by step. Follow a pattern. Think like someone else for a change, instead of running into brick walls in my own mind.

One step too far. It eats at me. Bit dramatic all this, but I can't breathe. Anyone who looks in my bloody face can see the truth.

Could I look in your face and see the truth? Maybe your face would be hard and unreadable, like a rock. I'd come close and put my ear on your chest, but it would be like trying to hear the heartbeat of one of those angels they make for graves. You've done this so many times; is it normal for you now? Would you tell me if I questioned you about it?

Would you stop if I asked?

**#16.**

People always say you need to get inside the criminal’s mind, but I don’t quite think this is what they mean. 

It was a simple cosmetic spell. It was invented to keep lipstick from being ruined by, well, anything and everything, but what it did was create a magical barrier around the lips, which nothing—not even poison—could leak through. Instead of casting the spell after the lipstick is applied, the suspect casts it before to protect herself from the poison.

I couldn’t go out as myself, even with a de-ageing potion. Polyjuice was too risky; what if the person I turned into was picked up later? But if I could go out as a person that didn’t exist, then no one could trace her. 

The potion that changes gender is similar to Polyjuice, and it was easier to obtain than I initially thought, especially as an Auror investigating a crime. I didn’t believe anyone would try to pick me up and I believed him when he said he just wanted to make sure I got home all right. Did I know how dangerous the neighbourhood I was sitting in was?

The last thing he did was kiss me.

Harry Potter had invited Draco Malfoy to a party. Even more astonishing, Draco Malfoy had accepted.

Draco smiled a little to himself as he sat on a chair at the big kitchen table at Grimmauld Place, gazing at the side of his tall glass. He could feel Potter's gaze resting on him from time to time, even though Potter had busied himself with making sure everyone was on their way to a nice buzz.

This was...nice. Harry had invited him out a few days ago and they'd met at a restaurant. Not just any restaurant, but _La Crête Rose_. Draco really hadn't been expecting Potter to reserve a table for them at that particular restaurant, and so he'd turn up in very casual clothing. He'd been turned away, rightfully so, and when he'd returned, Potter had been so flustered.

Draco had felt a bit off-kilter as well. He hadn't realised that it had been a... _date_.

At least Potter seemed fairly relaxed now.

"Ouch, these chairs are well hard, aren't they?" Ginny Weasley wriggled on her chair on the opposite side of the table. Beside her, Blaise gave her a long, weighty stare and she grinned at him. A rare smile brushed over Blaise's pretty mouth. Draco had been surprised to discover that Blaise and the female Weasley were currently an item. He hadn't spoken to most of his Slytherin mates for quite some time.

"I've a sitting room," Potter said with a lopsided grin. "A real live one, yeah? We'll retire, or whatever they say these days."

"Retire?" Someone laughed, Dean Thomas or Ronald Weasley. As they headed towards Potter's real live sitting room, Blaise touched his elbow and twitched his eyebrows in query. Draco nodded with a matching lift of his own brow and their conversation was complete, quite unlike the constant chatter of the Gryffindors as they settled in comfortable chairs and long sofa. Blaise and Ginny snuggled together on the loveseat, while Draco managed to get a very elegant high-backed armchair. Potter stuck close to him, and for that Draco was grateful. Now and again, Potter went back the the kitchen for drinks and ice, instead of summoning like any normal wizard would, and each time he got back, he ended up closer: standing, then leaning on the back of the chair, then sitting on the sturdy left arm.

Granger said, "Well, what's everyone doing for Christmas," in her prim way, and all the Gryffindors let out a chorus of groans, rolling their eyes dramatically as they pointed out that Christmas was _ages_ off. Everyone else, such as Luna Lovegood and the two Slytherins kept their expressions polite. Granger huffed: "You should all be buying presents now, in any case! Four months in advance is very good timing. Everything will be far cheaper, and you won't get caught up in the rush."

"The rush is the best part, though!" Ronald called out, and Granger turned away with a mock-dismissive sniff.

"And you?" Lovegood turned towards Potter and Draco, her pale gaze vague as usual. "What are _you_ doing for the hols?"

"Er--" Potter glanced down at Draco out of the corner of his eye. Lovegood had said _you_ as if Potter and Draco were a unit. Which they _were_ , really, as Auror partners. Draco stared up at him, and he felt his lips part slightly. Potter blinked at him, a quick sweep of his thick lashes.

"They'll probably wrap up on that Killer Doll case." Ronald let out a harsh sigh and took a long draught of his beer. Everyone's attention locked onto Draco and Potter , and he easily refrained from hunching his shoulders in a reflexive attempt to hide himself from their contemplation. His parents and grandparents had trained that out of him.

His grandfather, in particular, had instilled many things in Draco.

Many things.

He forcibly pushed those thoughts aside, for Potter's warm presence beside him was far more enjoyable. Besides, Potter was currently laying out half their current case. 

"Draco thinks it's a man," Potter said, and for a long moment, Draco's mind was fixed on the sound of his first name on Potter's soft voice. "A man, targeting degenerates. A killer killing predators."

"Like Dexter," Luna Lovegood put in, and wrinkled her nose as most of the others made expressions of confusion. "It's an American show, on the telly. A serial killer who targets other murderers. And he works for the Muggle Aurors, so he has an inside view. My father likes it a great deal."

Draco felt his whole self still. An inside view; that was a very grand way of putting it.

"I thought it was a woman," Blaise said, very slowly. He was the only who had picked up on Draco's deep quietude.

"It _is_ a woman," Potter said very firmly.

At the same time, Draco managed to shake off his stillness and say, "We're not sure. It could be a male disguised as a female, nothing is certain at this point."

Granger's tone was low and troubled as she asked, "So… there's no progress in the case?"

"We're not allowed to discuss the progress," Draco said, injecting a bit of finality in his own voice. 

Potter, of course, rambled on. "We're pretty much lost," he said with a sigh so deep that he wobbled on his perch. Draco eyed the glass of wine in his hand. Of _course_ he'd had a bit too much. 

"Wait, but why would you say they're targeting degenerates? They're killed by a person posing as a prostitute, that's what the reports all say."

"Because the reports are all leaving out the fact that the prostitute is _underaged_ ," Draco snapped and then cursed his loose tongue; it was probably because Potter seemed to be even closer than before. They'd have to invoke a strong binding charm so that this group of people wouldn't go chatting about this. This was information they'd deliberately kept from the media, even binding the witnesses they could find, saving their testimony for any Wizengamot hearing. 

"A young _girl_ ," Draco continued, so softly that everyone leaned forward. Even Potter did so, tilting his head slightly. His gaze felt gentle against Draco's skin. "But just because it _looks_ like a girl, doesn't mean it _is_. But whoever it is, I've ruled out the use of Polyjuice. Before I was assigned as Potter's partner, I'd been part of a team to review all the potion-makers for this case and track their supplies. All the brewers interviewed had air-tight alibis."

Most of the others murmured in surprise. Potter raised both eyebrows in that challenging manner he had. "Not all brewers might have been accounted for, especially if they're not registered, or they're underaged," Potter countered, and for some reason his gaze slipped towards Granger, whose cheeks flushed. Ronald, sitting beside her in the long sofa, gave her a friendly nudge and her blush managed to gain a murderous air. In the meantime, Potter still harangued him: "And you _still_ haven't properly ruled out my theory."

Draco shook his head; he felt it spin just a little. "Give me time. And there's so many ways that the killer could have gone about this." His voice rambled on without his explicit permission, like a confession gone out of control. "Could be an adult taking a de-aging potion. They're as cheap as dirt, and hard to track. The effects are instant and the timing for efficacy can be easy to regulate."

Potter murmured, "A de-aging potion. Hmm."

On one side of his face, Draco could feel Blaise's heavy regard.

"We should stop talking about this," Draco said, and kept his own gaze fixed on his own knees.

"Right," Potter said and clapped his hands once. "I'll have to bind you all, _yes_ , Ron, you too. I've gone and run my mouth as usual, and this is Auror protocol. You'll be released if the case goes to trial, no worries. Come on, it'll be right quick, yeah?" Quickly, and with that reassuring air he had, he placed a modified hex over the group, which would prevent them from sharing any of the important details with anyone who was not one of the assigned case-Aurors. If it were up to Draco, he would have gone with an Obliviate.

The discussion turned to lighter fare, and it was well into the wee hours of the morning that people began to make excuses to leave.

"You can sleep here," Potter offered. "All of you, if you like. There are enough rooms. I even bought out extra towels."

"Oooh, what a ruddy good host," Ronald chuckled in a sodden manner and he was still laughing as Granger dragged him off towards the bedrooms. Thomas and Lovegood chose to Floo home, and Blaise reached down and squeezed Draco's knee as he passed with Ginny, heading upstairs as well. Potter followed them, presumably to show everyone where to find the lamps and so on, and Draco got up with every intention to Floo for the Mansion as well.

He actually had one hand in the jar of Floo-powder when he heard Potter's quick step tripping back down the staircase. Without thinking about what he was doing, Draco shook off the gritty powder from his fingers and retreated to the sofa, settling down as Potter appeared at the arched entry of the sitting room. His face seemed to lighten as soon as he looked at Draco, and he moved quickly across the room to sit next to him.

"Are...you staying?" Potter sounded hopeful. When they'd been assigned as partners to close up what Ron called the 'Killer Doll' case, Draco hadn't expected Potter's attention nor his obvious growing affection. It was addictive and the more Draco tried to hold himself away from Potter, he was pulled in by the man. Pulled in far too easily.

"Like I said, you're welcome to stay," Potter said and his voice stroked Draco's skin.

"I think I will," Draco said. He stood up and then reached out to take Potter's hand, pulling him to his feet. "You look dead on your feet. Show me where I can sleep, and let's tuck you in."

He followed Potter up two flights of stairs; Potter kept turning to give him a wide-eyed stare, his eyes dark in the flickering light of the sconces which flared up to light their way. When they got to a landing, Potter muttered, "Come with me," and Draco nodded. Potter opened a door to the left: a room of moderate size, the fireplace banked low. The bed was neatly spread with plain but serviceable linen, but the door of the wardrobe stood open, revealing clothes hanging in the narrow space.

This was Potter's room. He stood behind Potter, frozen; a man, like all men, holding open a door and expecting… _expecting_. Draco felt ice gather around his lungs and heart. he felt his bones crack under the cold weight of his panic.

"This is… _your_ room," Draco managed to get out from between tight lips. Potter's face gained a stricken expression and he took a step away from Draco, holding out one hand as if to touch Draco's hand.

"No, I… I'm sorry. I'm tired and I assumed." Potter's face was absolutely guileless. In the moment, Draco thought he was absolutely lovely. "Right, I'm such a berk, um... there are a lot of other rooms, you can come this way--"

Draco reached out and gripped his hand. Funny; Potter had given him that precious space to breathe when he'd stepped away, but when Draco held his hand, warmth flooded his body and that crushing chill melted away. Potter's fingers clutched at his.

"It's fine," Draco heard himself say in perfectly calm tones. "I simply hadn't expected… this. I'll stay here if you want me to."

Potter let out a huge breath and then offered a tremulous smile. "I do. Want you to, that is."

They climbed into Potter's bed and they both lay there atop the bedding fully dressed. To his surprise, Draco felt sleep pluck at him with insistent fingers. This was the first time he'd felt sleepy in someone else's bed, the first time he'd ever _get_ sleep while beside another man.

The first time he'd ever felt safe.

**#15.**

not one potion. two. Make-up tips from gin. Haha. So easy  
Makeups grand. Gave that opoortunty  
ive done something

horrible. I

The case remained open, even though the Doll hadn't struck again in the past few weeks. Maybe she was in a place where she didn't have to do that anymore. Maybe she stopped trying to save people like her.

For his part, Draco kept compiling his notes, listing the murder victims and their _own_ victims… the ones who had made reports, that is. He listed another name and stared at it. 

Potter swept into their shared office, his hair awry as usual. He gave Draco a quick, distracted smile, and Draco smiled in return. Lately, Potter had seemed a little distant. Not to Draco in particular, but to everything. It was if he had removed himself from the world, a little. Draco could relate to the feeling. Potter sat and stared out the window for a few long moments.

"Let's go with your idea," Potter said suddenly and Draco looked up at him. The brightness which had been missing from Potter's eyes these past days seemed to gleam again. 

"My idea?" he repeated, softly. Closing his folder, he folded his arms atop the desk and gave all his attention.

"That it's _not_ Polyjuice that the Doll is using," Potter said, and Draco heard the kind familiarity in his voice around her alias. "You know, all this time, we've been playing a Beaters' game: reactive, on the defence. I think we need to switch to a Chasers' game. Get on the offense--"

"Go _after_ them, instead," Draco said.

"Right!" Potter bounced up out of his seat and rounded his own desk, sitting in front of Draco's. He stared at Draco with a strangely drilling expression. Draco sat comfortably under his regard; it was not a look that would ever hurt him. "We make ourselves the bait. Or, I will."

Draco shook his head sharply. "One, you need approval from the Head Auror in terms of undercover work. Two, everyone in the Magical world knows what you look like--"

" _Polyjuice_ , the mainstay of champions," Potter cut in with a gentle smile, carefully disregarding Draco's first point. "And we know what the Doll looks like. We just watch for her."

Draco let out a soft breath. "She's going to be near places where other Dolls go. That's part of the victim's fantasies, how they want to see her." He inhaled and breathed out again. "As far as I know, she kills those who make a sexual advance."

Potter nodded, but just kept looking at him, as if Draco was a mysterious message that need to be decoded urgently. Draco cleared his throat; he needed to head Potter off this route, in any way he could.

"I really don't agree with any of these mission parameters. Besides, why is it that _you_ have to be the bait, Harry?" 

Potter-- _Harry's_ expression shifted from that decrypting mode and gained a surprised softness at his first name emerging from Draco's mouth. After a beat,he reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a shimmering pile of translucent fabric. Draco felt shock burn a trail up his spine: the Invisibility Cloak. Harry stood up, reached out and grasped Draco's wrist, draping the material over his upturned palm. It felt wonderfully cold.

"You aced Concealment class and you're the absolute best in the field. And there's no one else I'd rather at my back than you."

Draco stared, speechless, at the cloak in his hand and the way his fingers curled perfectly in the the middle of Harry's palm. Harry trusted him.

When he looked up once more, he found Harry leaning down, head tilted. He stopped a few inches away from Draco's face, his gaze questioning. Draco understood; Harry would never take what Draco couldn't give willingly.

He surged up, and met Harry's lips with his own. Potter's hands rested lightly on his shoulders, a bare touch. His hands slid up, warm against the skin of Draco's neck, to cup his face and stroke his jaw. Draco licked into his mouth, enjoying Harry's taste and he pulled away a bare inch to murmur, "Take us to your home."

To be Apparated while being held so tightly was novel. Harry's arms, which had gripped tightly around Draco's waist, loosened and he took a step back. Draco caught his hand before he could take another, and without speaking, they headed upstairs. Draco removed Harry's clothes carefully, and allowed himself to touch Harry's broad shoulders. skimming his fingers down his arms and loosely holding his wrists for a moment. Harry reached out for his robes; when Draco shook his head, Harry got into the bed and watched as Draco undressed.

After a very brief hesitation, Draco lay atop him, and Harry's legs parted to accommodate him. The skin of Harry's erection was hot and soft against his as they moved against each other. Harry's mouth was so willing against his, his hands tickling paths against the skin of Draco's back.

He ground down against him, slow drags of his hips. He heard his name fall from Harry's lips, tucked in between sharp pants and low moans. Harry's thighs tightened against his hips, he arched up against Draco's chest. Harry braced one hand back on the bed behind him, one hand slung around Draco's neck. Harry's hot breath fell against Draco's skin as he pressed his mouth against his cheek. 

"I've wanted this," Draco told him and Harry keened. "I've wanted _you_ for so long."

That hot breath stuttered and Harry tensed up against Draco, muscles shifting, skin damp. He came, warm wetness flickering against Draco's cock, dripping onto the flexing expanse of Harry's stomach. 

Harry fell back against his pillow with a warm moan, looking up at Draco from under heavy eyelids. His hand slid between them, brushing against Draco's half-hard prick and Draco went still. Harry went still too, and his hand withdrew.

"What's wrong?" His voice was low and tight, and he looked at Draco with concern. "Are you… _hurt_?"

"Oh, no." Draco shook his head and smiled. "Not hurt at all." Harry reached up, brushing away the blond, damp hair from Draco's forehead. He shivered and caught Harry's hand in his own, kissing his fingers. "Just… I just want to touch you for now."

Harry nodded, but his gaze was downcast, and he worried his lower lip between his teeth as he wiped at the spend on his stomach. Draco lay beside him, watching the play of emotions on his face: confusion, self-reproach and disappointment. Harry sat up and turned his head slightly away from Draco, sighing.

"Tea," he said, as if it was a password. "I'll go make some. Do you want any?"

Draco said, "I'd love some," smiling because he could understand some of what Harry might be feeling. Harry wanted to make him feel good, as good as Draco had made him feel. He would learn, eventually, that making Draco feel good was a complex matter. Harry threw an abstract smile in his general direction and hurried from the bed, grabbing a pair of loose trousers from the wardrobe before he went out the door.

Draco sat up in bed and looked around Harry's sparse room. There was only one night-table, on the side nearest to the bathroom. A narrow, roughly-bound book sat by itself on a lower shelf of that night-table. Even from here, Draco could feel the powerful protective charms radiating from the book. He slanted a glance at the door and then leaned over, letting his fingers barely brush the air over the book, The invisible barrier of the charms bowed under his touch and then dissipated. No sparks went off as he took it up, and its pages fell open in his lap willingly.

Harry kept a journal; his handwriting and turn of phrase made Draco smile as he flipped through the relatively short items. 

Harry shouted something from downstairs, something about sugar, but Draco was busy holding his breath as he perused Entry #16.

**#14**

Get inside the criminal's mind. In Training, that came up in Auror Velasquez's class. That had been an absolute trip, that class. Auror Velasquez made Moody look like a rational, well-adjusted bloke. At least she'd treated everyone the same way. I really liked that; some of the other instructors had been unfair to a few of the trainees.

Like Malfoy.

I shouldn't even be thinking about this here, but at least this journal's secure. No one accesses it unless I want them to. 

Criminal's mind. Inside it. Right.

They're right clever. They _change_. Whoever they are, they change because they're trying to draw in a certain kind of person. They're bait, that's what they are, and they're the trap and they're the teeth that snap down, all in one.

How do you change? That's easy for anybody in our world with enough talent and knowledge. That part's the simplest, I think. But how do you kill so quietly? Who kills _quiet_? The Muggle coroners found nothing. Our people said they'd been poisoned, but they couldn't figure out how the potion had gotten into their system.

Okay, let's look at why the victims got chosen: four of them had criminal records. Histories of molestation, manipulation, etc. The others didn't have records, but maybe the killer knew something that we didn't know. Maybe they saw something we didn't see. 

Hang on, okay. Managed to cross-check some info: the victims with criminal records definitely targeted young females. All right. Fine, we know all that already. What did the killer _see_. Think, think like them, _think_.

Well, the killer saw their eyes, of course. The killer saw how they stared; felt how their gazes dragged up and down, leaving marks. The killer saw how their fingers twitched as if they couldn't wait to touch. If they could only get the opportunity, the things they would do. And that's what they got, an opportunity. One with teeth.

And they did touch, didn't they? The last thing they did together was the first thing you'd do with anyone you want to shag.

The first thing you do is

_kiss_.

It was Entry #16 that soaked into Draco's mind. It took up space in his chest and he watched Harry closely as they worked on their unauthorised stake-out, waiting for the weight of Harry's knowledge to crush him, but Harry gave nothing away. Harry wanted to catch the Doll, and they spent two sessions haunting parks and playgrounds, Harry polyjuiced as someone different each time.

To his last days, Draco would not know why he did it; maybe because Harry wanted to catch the Doll so badly; to stop her, his only reason, for Harry was far more decent than anyone had a right to be. Harry was a better human being than Draco's own grandfather, he who had began that strange gestation of the Doll, long before she burst forth into quiet onslaught.

Or...maybe it was because the Doll wanted to be caught. Maybe the Doll wanted to see Harry with her own eyes, to prove to herself that Harry was just as right as he seemed to be.

In any case, while Harry trudged and lurked, Draco swallowed his potions, stowed Harry's Cloak in a safe place, and the Doll came out to play.

She had always been stronger than Draco, in any case. She did what Draco could never do. The Doll protected Draco, and she protected the many children who would have suffered under the hands of those vile men. She sat on a swing with a small smile, hearing the steps of the Mister's hesitant approach. She glanced up, and even though the Mister wore a strange face, Draco told her that this was Harry. Look at his eyes. He doesn't tear with his gaze, don't you see?

The Doll saw. She also saw the way the Mister's eyes widened. Despite the reduction in age, and the change in gender, her eyes were still grey and her hair a neat fall of blonde. She expected the Mister to end this game, because it was fine now, but Draco understood that Harry was Auror to the core; a solid case needed solid evidence…and the best evidence in this situation was the kiss of the Doll.

"Hey," the Mister called. "You should get home, it's getting dark."

"I'm waiting for Mummy," the Doll answered in her high voice, for she and Draco always waited for Mummy. For whatever reason, Mummy had never arrived; maybe Mummy hadn't ever really known where she was. "She promised, but she's late."

The Mister grimaced, as if he was in pain. "Is she late a lot?"

She shrugged. "She forgets. She's late a lot."

"Do you need a lift home?"

The Doll always needed a lift. She got into the car with the Mister ( _Auror issue,_ Draco informed her), and she gave him directions. This Mister, like some of the other misters, offered her a meal, and she accepted. The Doll was a growing girl, and she was always hungry.

Like a dance, the Mister took her to a room in a motel across the street from the restaurant. She knew all the steps, but this Mister made her nervous. In her unusual anxiety, the Doll chattered on about all sorts of things, deftly taking stories from Draco's life as hers. When the door of the seedy room slammed, the Doll jumped and whirled around, stumbling back to sit heavily on the lumpy duvet. The Mister's face was ashen, even under the dark skin of his disguise, but his jaw was set as he sat beside her. The bed bounced a little.

"Do you want to try something," the Mister said and he drew a shuddering breath. He leaned in.

Like every Malfoy emotion, Draco's anguish was tightly reined and closely controlled as the Mister slumped over and then tumbled to the floor. The Doll stared down at his trembling body, carefully cataloguing his spasms. 

Harry died _stubborn_ , the way he did everything else. His hands curled into fists, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a feral snarl; his eyes squeezed shut. His feet drummed on the floor. In a few minutes, the poison would finish wreaking temporary havoc in his blood. The Doll retrieved her wand, and stepped into the awful loo. She muttered a charm to flush the potions out of her system, and another to change her clothes . Let Draco take care of him now.

Draco burst out of the bathroom and raced over to Harry, kneeling beside him. He waved his wand very slowly over that tenacious frame, using the same charm as the Doll: the one to flush out the potions out of the bloodstream. A poison was just a very potent potion, in any case. The blood-cleansing charm wouldn't be as effective as a properly prepared antidote, but it would do in a pinch.

As it did now: Harry's convulsions diminished, and then stopped. Since the charm took care of _all_ potions, the effects of the Polyjuice disappeared as well: the mahogany skin flushed pale, and the short black hair tumbled into wild curls. Draco gathered him up, and something in him broke when Harry's lashes fluttered.

Draco felt suddenly filled to the brim with emotion. It seemed as if everything he'd held back as a child; as an adult; for the Doll: they came bubbling up, clamouring against his skin. He chose one, a desperate anger, and let it sweep him away.

"I'm so furious with you!" he yelled as Harry's unfocused gaze rolled in his general direction. Harry's body was still motionless in his grip and Draco couldn't think. He pressed his mouth to Harry's brow and then buried his face in Harry's damp neck, inhaling deeply the sour sharpness of his sweat. When Draco let him fall back to the floor, tearing at the placket of his trousers in a sort of roaring red haze, Harry moaned weakly and twitched as if he wanted to get away, but Draco already sucked his limp cock into his mouth, feeling it plump up against his tongue. He bobbed his head up and down on Harry's dick, drool seeping out the corner of his mouth. He choked on the head as it bumped at the back of his throat and swallowed down Harry's bitter ejaculate.

"Where… is she," Harry croaked as Draco put his clothing back to rights and gathered him up again, kneeling on the floor. Harry's head lolled from side to side, searching. "You let her go." An accusation, exhausted and bereft.

"I chose," Draco told him. "It was either her, or you."

**#3**

If my fifteen year old self ever read this journal, he would probably die of shock to know this: I love working with Malfoy. Ron's left the Aurors to help out George at the shop, and while he and I got on brilliantly (we always do), working with Malfoy is like having all my senses blown wide open.

Malfoy's so bloody clever. He looks at things in a much different way than anyone I've ever met. He's so funny, too! I never knew he was so funny. Or maybe my sense of humour's changed. I suppose it has. 

His face is so sad these days, though. I mean, he always had his face all screwed up, so maybe he'd been sad all the time and I just hadn't known. But his eyes…they look like they've seen a lot. Maybe that's how people see me.

He smiles around me, though. That's real nice when he does and I have to admit, it really feels good when that happens.

Dear Past-Harry: Malfoy's a massive wanker, I know this. He's horrible, in fact, but give him a few years. Then, he'll be just what you've always needed.

I can't believe I just wrote that.

The Head Auror was, understandably, livid when informed about an unauthorised undercover mission, brought out by Harry's visit to the mediwizards. Sophie Greendarner removed them from the Killer Doll case immediately. She ordered them to turn over all case-files to the newly assigned Aurors, put them on a three-week suspension, and demanded a detailed report within the hour.

"Get out of my office, the both of you," Auror Greendarner snarled at them. Draco glanced over his shoulder as they complied and found her dark gaze tracking their moves. They wrote their reports, agreeing to leave out that bit about Harry Potter kissing the Killer Doll.

"There goes our training in ethics and professional responsibility," Harry murmured as he scribbled on his parchment. "Auror Maples would be _so proud_."

Draco said nothing; he just watched Harry form the letters on his paper. They handed in their reports to Greendarner's assistant, and then went to pack up their files. Harry packed very neatly, going through each document with a keen eye, as if he was looking for something he'd missed. He even went through Draco's files, and stopped at the list of murder victims and potential suspects. Draco sat in his chair, and waited.

"Your name's on this," Harry said, very quietly. "Under the list of suspects." He looked up, and the light overhead cast reflections on the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes. "Never seen that particular investigative tactic before. At least, I like the colour you've chosen for your name: red."

One side of Draco's lips twitched up, and Harry smiled in return. He tilted his head and his eyes were visible once more.

"Well, there are other colours, you see." He leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes, seeing the parchment in his minds'-eye; it was as clear as Entry #16. "Blue for the suspects who happened to have been abuse-victims of some of those men murdered by the Doll. And the names in green are those victim-suspects who had access to the necessary supplies."

"And red?" Harry's voice sounded too calm in the stillness of the room. "What does red mean?"

Draco opened his eyes. "Red means both." He had never before seen anyone stagger without moving, and to see Harry do it was interesting and disturbing. Harry didn't speak in full sentences for quite some time. They left the Ministry of Magic together, and in silent agreement, they made their way to Harry's home.

"Stir-fry?" Harry said, heading towards the kitchen with determined steps, and it was the only phrase he released even as he handed the vegetables for Draco to handle, and busied himself with the meat and noodles. His whole being seemed to radiate a dark coldness, and Draco tried to control his breathing as he sliced.

He finished with a large onion, his eyes protected from watering by a modified bubble-charm. "Are you angry with me?" he asked, turning slightly so that his voice would carry across the large kitchen, to where Harry now stood over an impressively huge wok. Harry spun around as if Draco had hexed him.

"What?" Harry asked, his eyes wide. Draco cancelled his eye-shielding charm and put down the knife beside the neat pile of chopped onion. He turned, leaned back against the counter and rested his hands on the edge.

Draco repeated his question, keeping the inflection as even as before. "I asked if you were angry with me." 

Harry shook his head violently. "I... _no_ ," he said, his voice shaking as he moved closer. "I'm not angry, I lo--." He pursed his lips, and he let out a heavy exhale. "I _love_ you."

_That's a dangerous emotion,_ Draco thought to himself, but Harry was already in his arms and their lips met in a frenzy. Smoke rose from Harry's wok and yet Draco found that it was impossible to let him go.

They rang for takeaway, greasy fried fare that they ate standing up. Harry's face was a mess of cascading feeling, and Draco ached for him. Harry wore guilt like a cowl of thorns. He carried his agony around like a tattered cloak. His anger burned like Beltane fire in his chest.

"Who was it?" Harry asked as he attacked his burned pot with cleaning charms. "The first one...who--"

"Doesn't matter," Draco said gently, standing close to him. "He's gone now. He can't hurt me anymore."

"One of the men on your list, then," Harry said, nodding. His eyes seemed wet.

"No. It was my own grandfather, if you really must know." Draco wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Harry's shoulder. He put his mouth right against the vulnerable curl of Harry's ear like a deadly kiss. "You should let this go," he murmured. His arms were full of Harry. That vibrant, beautiful life lay vulnerable, willingly so, within the circle of Draco's treacherous arms.

"How can I?" Harry said and his voice broke. 

"I love you too, you know," Draco told him and Harry sagged in his arms. "I do. I think that I've loved you for a very long time, but I was unsure. I told myself that it was but a physical desire. But I became so very certain when I read your journal."

Harry, who had been limp just a few beats before, became like rock against Draco's skin. Draco kept talking. "That first night we were together. I read it. Entry 16."

The rock crumbled and Harry turned around, his gaze fixed on Draco's face. His lips moved soundlessly; in confession, in pardon. Draco stroked his cheek, reveling in the sanctity of his stare. His other hand stole down to clutch at Harry's hip.

"Now you see me," Draco crooned, and Harry's chest moved against his as he panted. Between them, their cocks grew hard, flesh yearning for flesh and Draco rocked against him, his head buzzing with this freedom, drunk on pleasure . Harry's skin was hot under his fingers. "And now you see a man who sees _you_ ," and he brushed his lips against Harry's, greedy for his gasping moans. Harry was his poison, and his blood rampaged along his veins, transmuted. 

"You see a man who knows one of your truths," he continued and Harry trembled. Draco bit at his jaw, his chin. Their heavy breaths painted the air between their skin. 

"I've--" Harry swallowed. He tipped his head back to let Draco bite down at the curve of his neck, before moving his head to look in Draco's eyes again. "I--I've killed a man."

Under Harry's heavy-lidded stare, filled with wonder and confusion and an excited kind of fright, Draco arched and came, quietly. 

Draco closed his eyes when he murmured, "I've killed more."

**#1.**

This is the journal of Harry J. Potter. I was told to keep one. I wasn't actually _told_ , but I read somewhere that it's a good way to sort yourself out. If ever you needed sorting out. Sorting out if you've gone mental, and not the sexy sorting out. I'm not sure if I've gone mental, but there you go. Hermione has been on my case to go to therapy, but I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want them looking at me, like...like.

I don't know, I just don't want them looking at me. People's' gazes _hurt_ , has anyone ever thought of that? They damn well hurt. They're heavy and sharp at the same time, and they stretch you until you feel like you're paper-thin. I remember how they looked at me when I was small. They trapped me with their eyes.

Besides, I could say anything I want and the therapist wouldn't be any wiser. They wouldn't know what's _really_ going on inside me. I bet everyone is like that: they only show their therapist what they want them to see.

We do that to everyone, don't we? With Hermione and Ron, I'm one way. With Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, I'm another way. When I'm with people I don't know, I'm another person. Which one is really me?

You know, when I was a younger, I used to see folks snogging in the alley down the way, and they looked real mental to me. Holding hands, walking around with that look on their faces, as if the other person hung the moon and so on. 

Maybe that's when you see who you need to see.

Maybe thats how you find out who you really are.

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Leave your comment for the author here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-remix.livejournal.com/64459.html). ♥


End file.
